And wherefore do the Poor complain?

    The rich man asked of me,—

Come walk abroad with me, I said

    And I will answer thee.

Twas evening and the frozen streets

    Were cheerless to behold,

And we were wrapt and coated well,

    And yet we were a-cold.

We met an old bare-headed man,

    His locks were few and white,

I ask’d him what he did abroad

    In that cold winter’s night:

’Twas bitter keen indeed, he said,

    But at home no fire had he,

And therefore, he had come abroad

    To ask for charity.

We met a young bare-footed child,

    And she begg’d loud and bold,

I ask’d her what she did abroad

    When the wind it blew so cold;

She said her father was at home

    And he lay sick a-bed,

And therefore was it she was sent

    Abroad to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down

    Upon a stone to rest,

She had a baby at her back

    And another at her breast;

I ask’d her why she loiter’d there

    When the wind it was so chill;

She turn’d her head and bade the child

    That scream’d behind be still.

She told us that her husband served

    A soldier, far away,

And therefore to her parish she

    Was begging back her way.

We met a girl; her dress was loose

    And sunken was her eye,

Who with the wanton’s hollow voice

    Address’d the passers by;

I ask’d her what there was in guilt

    That could her heart allure

To shame, disease, and late remorse?

    She answer’d, she was poor.

I turn’d me to the rich man then

    For silently stood he,

You ask’d me why the Poor complain,

    And these have answer’d thee.